What his head conceived his hand executed. But he promised to give me a couple of guineas if I'd ascertain whether it fitted your locks. He was looking pale and ill. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder.
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